by Thea Hayes
Walkabout time was when the Aboriginal people held most of their corroborees and initiation ceremonies. But during the stock season, if there were no cattle to watch in the stock camps, you’d sometimes see Aboriginal stockmen have an impromptu corroboree, playing their didgeridoos and clacking sticks. There would be initiation ceremonies, and occasionally some of the whites would be invited to rainmaking corroborees and women’s corroborees.
14
The stock camps
Whenever Ralph was heading out to the stock camps, he would invite me to go along with him. I was always thrilled and keen to see what the camps were all about.
A typical stock camp in those days consisted of about eighty horses and fourteen mules, two Aboriginal horse tailors, ten Aboriginal stockmen, a head stockman and his jackaroo. The Aboriginal workers stayed in the stock camp all their working lives, starting out as horse or bullock tailors, becoming stockmen, and then returning to horse or bullock tailoring as they became aged. The bullock tailors were older Aboriginal stockmen who had four or five young Aboriginal children with them who looked after the mob of bullocks that had been mustered. They would tail them on their horses, not far from the stock camp while the stockmen went on mustering to get more bullocks. The bullock tailors would also watch the mob at night by riding around them to quieten them. When the mob was ready, the tailors would hand them over to the drover.
The horse tailors’ job before daylight was to go out on the old night horse looking for the mob of younger horses. Condamine bells were put around the necks of the mules so that the horse tailors could hear where the mob was grazing. The horses were ‘hobbled’: hobbles are leather straps with links and a swivel placed around a horse’s fetlocks to restrict its movement. This meant the horses could move around but not wander too far away. The horse tailors had to catch the horses by their neck straps, put the bridles on, remove the hobbles and take the animals back to the camp, ready for the stockmen.
According to Tom there were seventy thousand cattle on Wave Hill and two thousand horses. There were no boundary fences, but scattered yards in different areas of the station.
The men would muster the cattle into the yards and the head stockman or the top Aboriginal stockman would ride in on a bronco. This horse would be fitted with a ‘bronco saddle’ that had a rope tied to a hook on its side so the stockman could lasso a beast and use his horse to haul it to the ‘bronco panel’, made of thick timber, where the other stockmen would pull the beast to the ground. It would then be branded, ear-tagged, castrated and de-horned as required.
Here are some details about the four stock camps on Wave.
Number One Camp—with Sabu as head stockman, his jackaroos Pat Duggan and Tom Joyce—covered the northwestern area around the river country: Catfish, McDonald, Mountain Springs, Gills Creek, Wattie Creek, and Seal Gorge where there was Aboriginal art but it was gudardji, bad medicine, to go there.
Number Two Camp, run by Tony Clark and the jackaroo Colin Cameron, was in the river country around Hooker Creek and bordering on the neighbouring property, Inverway, which was owned by Peg and Pat Underwood, pioneers of the Territory who’d taken up their cattle station in the middle of the Vestey stations. It was called ‘in the way’ by the Vestey people, hence Inverway by the Underwoods. Number Two also encompassed Sambo, Gordy Springs, Number Twenty-Nine Bore, Yankee Doodle Plain, Neave Gorge and MacDonald Yard.
Lynn, Gunner and, later, Pat Duggan ran Number Three Camp. It covered the bore country, which encompassed about forty artesian bores, and the ‘outstation’, Cattle Creek, a very isolated little station that was part of Wave Hill on the edge of the Tanami Desert, where Joy and Jim Warren and their daughter, Mandy, looked after the stud Shorthorn bulls for use on the main station.
I was driven out to Cattle Creek a few times, enjoying time with the Warren family. Jim had his own aeroplane, an Auster: they were called ‘rag and bone’ planes because of their fabric covering. Jim often flew in to Wave Hill to pick up the mail. I was told that some years earlier, a gentleman had landed on the station airstrip in an Auster to refuel. When the aviation fluid was being pumped in, some static electricity caused a spark. The plane caught alight and burnt to the ground. The story went that the steel frame from the burnt plane was so strong, the men were able to make a butcher trolley for the ‘killer’ (a bullock slaughtered for its meat) to be carted to the kitchen. I saw the trolley there in 1960.
Number Four Camp was run by Jim Tough and Len Brodie. Their job was to attend to the boundaries for the handover of cattle with neighbouring properties. Mustering on unfenced boundaries required notice to be given to these stations beforehand. The stock camps from both stations would muster together, and then each station would take their rightful cattle back to their respective properties. One tried to avoid using one’s own brand for a killer.
To get a killer in the stock camp, the stockmen would muster a few cattle, keeping them as quiet as possible to avoid overheating. One stockman on horseback would shoot the killer. The beast would then have its throat cut to bleed out. The hide would be removed for hobbles and straps, and then the beast would be very carefully cut into sections to be salted and hung. Everyone loved the rib bones from a fresh killer.
I learnt about the various parts of a killer. How delicious were the ‘kyii’ bones or floating ribs, and the ‘sweetbreads’, the small intestine. Lynn had a bet with me that he would somehow get me to eat ‘prairie oysters’, calf testicles, before next holidays. I wasn’t game to eat anything at all in his camp, as much as he tempted me with all sorts of delicious-smelling food. Consequently I won the bet, and he had to take me out for dinner in Sydney when the holidays arrived.
Nearly every afternoon I went out on the ‘run’ with Ralph. We were getting to know each other very well and becoming the best of friends.
Someone we often caught up with, driving around the station, was Pat Bellamy, the bore mechanic. His job was crucial to the survival of the animals. He made sure all the subartesian bores were operating properly, pumping their water by windmill into tanks to keep the troughs full and the cattle watered.
While we drove around, Ralph would also check the bores that watered the hundreds of cattle. Before the wet as it got drier and drier, with very little wind, someone was needed at these bores to start their motors, so some had an Aboriginal family living on-site.
One weekend Ralph and I, with some of the boys, drove to Sambo, a delightful spot on the Victoria River. There was a gravel crossing near a tall cliff and a large waterhole with a gravel bottom, and the area was lined with paperbark and bloodwood trees. The river was about thirty metres wide at Sambo. What a beautiful river, with its many fishing and swimming sites.
The water was teeming with catfish and their nasty spikes. The other fish, including bream, were much better eating but harder to catch. I caught two catfish and a turtle—but it got away. We thought we might catch a barramundi, as they were prevalent at Inverway only twenty-three kilometres upstream, but no luck.
The further north you went, the better the barramundi. Occasionally someone would turn up at the station with a couple of these delicious fish. The cook would bake them whole in the oven and we would thoroughly enjoy this delectable change of diet.
While Ralph and I fished at Sambo, the others went hunting freshwater crocodiles that were two to three metres long. The boys said they were harmless, but no way would you get me in the water if they were close at hand. Two crocs were shot but the boys were only able to get one ashore. The Aboriginal staff had their favourite delicacy that night, barbecued crocodile. We had catfish for breakfast; they weren’t bad. Anything would be a welcome change from beef, beef, beef, three times a day.
The Victoria River is about 560 kilometres long and starts at Riveren, part of Inverway Station—where Terry Underwood, Peg and Pat’s daughter-in-law, wrote her book In the Middle of Nowhere—through to Humbert River Station, which was taken up by Charlie Schultz when he was only about nineteen. Char
lie also wrote a book about his experiences, Beyond the Big Run, and lived there with his wife, Hessie. The river continues on through Victoria River Station and Timber Creek; Bradshaw Station, named after the fellow who found the Bradshaw rock paintings in 1891; Bullo River, where Sara Henderson wrote her book From Strength to Strength; and then out to sea through Queens Channel. The river lends itself to the unfolding of great stories to be passed down through the generations.
15
A big surprise
After inspecting Tipperary Station, Tom returned to Wave Hill by plane later in 1960. Peter Morris dropped him off, before continuing on to Darwin, thence to Sydney. The Vesteys did not buy Tipperary.
I wandered around to Ralph’s room after spending the afternoon in the clinic. He greeted me with, ‘I’ve told Tom I’m going to marry you.’
‘You said what?’ I replied. ‘You’re joking.’ I knew Ralph was very keen, but I hadn’t expected a proposal. I’d only been there six weeks. I was overawed and thrilled, ’cause I really liked him. But did I love him enough?
‘No, I’m serious,’ he replied.
I started to laugh. ‘Don’t I have any say in this?’
Taking me into his arms, he gently said, ‘Well, will you marry me?’
‘You’re supposed to get down on your knees to propose,’ I said, still laughing.
Looking closely at Ralph, I could see that he was serious. The look in his eyes was solemn, intent and yet very gentle. We melted together. It felt so comfortable. The heavens didn’t open up and I didn’t see stars, but I knew it was right. The first time Ralph had kissed me it was a friendly, non-sexy kiss. We’d shared a nice platonic kiss each night—this one was entirely different!
Over the past six weeks we’d become mates, buddies, the best of friends. I’d wondered about the possibility of romance, as I really liked Ralph, but he didn’t appear to be the romantic type. Now everything changed. Here was this gorgeous romantic man with whom I’d eaten practically every meal since my arrival, gone off for jaunts to the stock camps nearly every afternoon, played table tennis and billiards in the rec room, and helped entertain hundreds of visitors. And he wanted to marry me. And it was only six weeks since we’d met!
I thought how fortunate I was to meet my future husband on the station; to be able to get to know someone so well by living in the same domain. How difficult it must be elsewhere, I thought, dating once or twice a week, and hoping you’ve picked the right one.
I wrote to my mother,
I’m very happy here. The overseer has fallen in love with me, and proposed already. He is terrific, but I just don’t quite know what to think of everything, it’s all been so sudden. We do get on wonderfully well, and feel we know one another well enough to plan for the future.
Poor Tom had nearly died of shock when Ralph told him. He was then so happy he proceeded to drink himself silly for two days. He was like a child in the way he wanted me and Ralph, and any visitors who happened to be there, to come to his quarters and listen to him babble on about nothing. I was told that this didn’t happen often; a good thing, too, as no one could get any work done.
In November, not long after he proposed, Ralph was sent to Limbunya, another Vestey station, about 160 kilometres northwest of Wave. He had to relieve the manager, Ray Jansen, while he and his wife Pat and family went on their bi-yearly two-month holiday.
I thought I would be lost without my mate, but on Wave Hill we were like one big happy family. The Aboriginal people were all part of that family, a little like in the television show Downton Abbey: everyone had their position whether as a white or an Aboriginal employee in helping to run a big station. The Aboriginals were under the umbrella of the manager and overseer, and the nursing sister supervised their health. In return, our quarters were cleaned, our washing done, the cattle mustered and branded. Everyone respected the role of everyone else.
While Ralph was away, I kept busy. There was always plenty to do in looking after visitors, many of whom were Vestey people travelling through on holidays.
The head stockman Tony Clark was Ralph’s best friend and had been commissioned by Ralph to look out for me while he was away. Tony was a sturdy, strong friend, always there when you needed support, always interested in everything and everyone around him.
Often, in the late afternoon, we would wander over to the kitchen where someone would produce a bottle of Scotch, secretly transported via a visitor or a trip to Top Springs. I’d never tasted whisky before and with good company I really enjoyed it.
Ralph was to come over before Christmas so that we could officially announce our engagement at a party. However, the wet season started early that year, at the beginning of November, and all the rivers were overflowing, especially the Victoria. Crossing was impossible at the Wave Hill police station until New Year’s, and then Gum Creek and Gills Creek were up between the police station and Limbunya. At least we had good airstrips on the stations, so we received our mail and had access to evacuation if necessary. There was no engagement party yet, but heaps of well-wishing cards arrived from down south.
16
Christmas at Wave
Christmas was fast approaching. According to Tom, the custom was that all the white staff on the station could place an order for the alcoholic beverage of their choice. A truck was then dispatched to Top Springs with a trustworthy driver. The road to Top Springs was weatherproof and the truck returned a week before Christmas, but no one was allowed to collect their order until Christmas Eve, with the exception of the boss. Two days before Christmas, Tom took his supply, drank until Christmas Eve, and then stopped just as everyone else got their grog. He became sober and virtuous, and annoyed with those who were drinking and enjoying themselves. ‘Aren’t they disgusting, drinking so much?’ he mumbled on several occasions. If only he could have seen himself two days before.
Despite the heat, everyone dressed up for Christmas dinner. The men even wore ties, as had been the custom every night at the station until they’d complained to Tom that as I didn’t always wear stockings to dinner, why should they have to wear ties? Tom had agreed, but the dress code was still long-sleeved shirts and long trousers for dinner, and ties for special occasions, such as for visiting VIPs or for a wedding.
For Christmas dinner we ate station-bred chicken and Vestey ham that was sent up from Sydney, one to each station. Christmas turned out to be the only time we got to taste ham, until several years later when we bred a few pigs and learnt to smoke cuts of pork in an old fridge with a slow fire underneath. That first Christmas Day was okay, but I think we were all remembering family Christmases. I was a little homesick, and I think some of the boys were too.
On New Year’s Eve all of us were invited to the Wave Hill police station, where we’d attended the post-bushfire party a couple of months earlier. The police station was in the Wave Hill settlement, located on a small rise on the opposite side of the Victoria River.
I’d learnt a bit more about the settlement since I’d last visited. It was a small township built for the Warlpiri tribe, who’d been sent there by the federal government from Hooker Creek. Perhaps there were believed to be too many Aboriginal people at Hooker Creek—I’m not sure. We had a few Warlpiri employees at Wave Hill. They didn’t seem to get on well with the Gurindji staff, or so I heard, as they were considered outsiders in the Gurindji territory.
The settlement consisted of a manager’s house, storehouse, schoolhouse and teacher’s house, and quite a few timber cottages built for the Aboriginal families. These suburban-type houses had stoves, washing machines, fridges, freezers and furniture. The residents preferred to sit outside on the ground most of the time and to cook on a campfire; when they ran out of firewood, they’d chop up the furniture. Confusion reigned as to what the washing machine and the fridges were for. No one taught the residents how to use these appliances; money was poured in for material amenities and that was it. According to the settlement manager’s wife, a freshly caught crocodile was fo
und in one washing machine and dirty clothes in the freezer. Christmas 1960 saw education for Wave Hill’s Aboriginal children just around the corner with the arrival of a teacher, Jill Booth, and her husband, Ian, handyman and bus driver. From the start of the school year the children were to be picked up every morning by Ian and taken to the settlement schoolhouse.
On our arrival at the settlement and police station on New Year’s Eve, about twenty of us were greeted warmly by Molly and Basil Courts. We were summoned to the lower area of the two-story house where two breezeways crossed in the middle to form four gauzed rooms.
To get the show on the road, Molly and Basil had organised a party game. I was told to sit in a particular chair while someone was blindfolded and turned around three times. Next, they had to try and find me and, if they did, they could kiss me. Yuck! I thought, but I wasn’t going to be a piker and spoil everyone’s fun.
Everyone knew that Tom Joyce, the English jackaroo with glasses who looked more suited to an office than a stock camp, was a little infatuated with me; no one missed anything in our small community. Consequently, he was the chosen one. As soon as the blindfold went on, Frank Frith—the large, jovial Aboriginal horse breaker—replaced me in the chair. Everyone was trying not to laugh as Tom Joyce completed his three turns, giddily and eagerly reaching out to grab me. He planted a big smoochy kiss on Frank’s lips! The crowd roared. Tom ripped off his blindfold and shrank in embarrassment, but not for long as we all gave him loud applause for being such a good scout.
Dinner was superb. We weren’t used to such tasty food at the station. The pièce de résistance was the dessert: bombe alaska with homemade ice-cream, covered in meringue, placed on a tray, doused with brandy, ignited, and brought to the table as a flaming mountain of luscious, creamy meringue.
